


Twelve Agents' Tales

by probablylostrightnow



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age MP Characters, Ficlets, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 09:20:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4429892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/probablylostrightnow/pseuds/probablylostrightnow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisition has attracted a motley crew of recruits who deal with tasks that don't require the Inquisitor's personal attention. </p>
<p>Twelve short pieces, each describing a meeting between an Agent of the Inquisition and a different member of the Inquisition's Inner Circle.</p>
<p>Each chapter title lists the two characters involved, so if you're interested in a specific character feel free to jump straight to their chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Reaver's Tale: Leliana and Tamar

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to servantofclio for beta reading, and to all the folks on Tumblr who encouraged me to take on this project!

The door to the Skyhold dungeon creaked open at Leliana's touch, and she slipped through it and down to the bend in the stairs. The lone guard on duty reached for her sword, but Leliana raised the lantern in her hand and opened a shutter so that it lit her face and tightly bound red hair. The guard relaxed when she recognized the former Left Hand of the Divine, and Leliana gracefully descended the stairs to meet her.  
  
She whispered, "You never saw me here. Do you understand?"  
  
The guard nodded, and Leliana moved across the room and knelt by the far door. She held the lantern up to the door and examined it closely, finding nothing of note. Placing the lantern on the ground, she produced a thin wire from a pouch at her side. She slid it under the door, moved it from side to side, and smiled as the wire met resistance. She had been right to be cautious.  
  
She pulled an oblong piece of metal from another pouch, then carefully opened the door a crack, sliding the metal bar into place to support the object leaning on the door. She listened carefully at the crack, but heard only the distant moan of the wind. Slowly, she pulled the door open further, still supporting board that had been propped against it, a bag of something - probably bits of iron - tied to its top end. A crude alarm, but a cunning one - just as she had expected from the occupant.  
  
Leliana gently lowered the apparatus to the ground and stepped through the door. The room beyond lay exposed to the night. Much of the flooring had long since given way and disappeared down the mountainside. The moonlight dimly illuminated the form of a woman lying on a threadbare blanket, scant feet away from a plummet into the night. Her hair was dark and close-cropped, and red paint was visible on her face. Her right hand rested on the pommel of an immense sword. She perfectly matched the description Leliana had been given of Tamar.  
  
Leliana drew her dagger and crept closer to Tamar, who did not stir. When Leliana was close enough, she wrapped her free hand around the hilt of Tamar's sword and yanked it away from her, tossing it into a corner with a clatter. Tamar's eyes flew open and her hand spasmed, grasping for a sword that wasn't there. Her other hand balled into a fist, and her muscles tensed to strike - then she became very still as the moonlight reflected off Leliana's knife at her throat.  
  
"Stay still," Leliana said. "I mean you no harm." _Half a lie._  
  
Tamar's lips curved upward. "Ah, I'm to consider you a friendly knife at my throat, then?" she asked, her tone sardonic.  
  
"My name is Lel-"  
  
"I know who you are. Spymaster, they call you. Or Left Hand, even now that you're the hand of a dead woman. But I've long known you by other names." Her voice grew louder and more bitter. "Assassin. Butcher. Murderer."  
  
"I understand your anger, Tamar," Leliana said in her most placatory tone. Her left hand closed on the hilt of her other dagger, ready to strike if Tamar made a move.  
  
Tamar's lips curved again, a mocking half-smile. "I think you don't. Has a 'Hero' slaughtered your family and your friends? Did you flee with your brother's dying screams in your ears? Are the killers of your family lionized for the deed? Live through that and then I'll believe that you _understand_."  
  
"Is that your plan?" Leliana asked. "To make me suffer? To get revenge for Kolgrim and the others?"  
  
Tamar sighed. "I've killed enough of your Chantry folk to know that vengeance is hollow. You and everyone you love will die, sooner or later, and go into the dirt or the flames to be forgotten. It is the way of things. It will happen with or without me."  
  
The words were philosophical, but Leliana heard fury in her tone. She wondered if there was any way that Tamar could convince her that she wasn't a threat. Perhaps it would be best to end it now. One slash with the knife, a kick into the depths below, and all signs of the reaver's presence here would vanish into the night. Cullen would be suspicious, but Leliana could handle him.  
  
She found herself strangely reluctant to do it. _Scruples, Leliana? You have some left?_  
  
"You clearly hold a grudge against me. How can I believe you won't turn on us?"  
  
Tamar's laugh echoed from the remaining walls and the mountainsides. It was a hollow, mirthless sound.  
  
"You should be _grateful_ for the rage and hate I have for you. Without them, I would be a hollow shell, no good to you and your Inquisition. My hate pulls me from my bedroll in the morning. My rage fuels the destruction of your enemies. If that rage and hate went away? Then I would have _nothing_." Her voice almost broke on the last word, and she glared at Leliana as if daring her to comment on it.  
  
"I spent _months_ locked up under the Chantry. More than long enough to know I don't want to die in a cell. Or on the executioner's gibbet, or to having my throat slit in the shadows. I want to die gloriously, in battle against a great foe. Your Commander and your bloody-handed Inquisition are giving me that chance. I won't throw it away." Her voice was raw, and Leliana heard years of grief and pain and loneliness in it. She knew Tamar was telling the truth.  
  
Leliana pulled her dagger away from Tamar's throat, but kept it ready in her hand. Tamar kept looking at her as if expecting the blow to fall. When it did not, she stood stiffly and moved to the corner to retrieve her sword.  
  
"You don't have to stay down here," Leliana said. "There's room in the barracks."  
  
Tamar shook her head. "Couldn't sleep there. Too many people, too much warmth and noise. And here, I can look at the cells and remember that I'm not in them."  
  
"Is there anything else you need?"  
  
Tamar glared at Leliana. "If you're not going to kill me, go away and let me sleep."  
  
"Sleep well," Leliana said.  
  
"GO," Tamar gritted out.  
  
Leliana took the stairs up slowly, considering. Tamar was sincere, she believed it - but people could still change their minds. Her agents would need to watch Tamar. Perhaps they could report whether she was friendly - or, at least, less hostile - with any of the other recruits. If so, Leliana could nudge Cullen to team them on missions. Yes, give Tamar the chance to build some positive bonds with others, and perhaps Tamar could find something other than bloodshed to live for.  
  
It was the practical course to take, keeping Tamar's services while minimizing the risk. If it occurred to her that it was also a way to make amends, she never admitted it, not even to herself.


	2. The Legionnaire's Tale: Dorian and Korbin

A horrible clamor from the stairs distracted Dorian from paging through a treatise on the magisters of ancient Tevinter. From the crashing and clattering, it sounded like Cullen’s entire army was on their way up to his floor of the tower. He set down the book - it didn’t seem to contain any scraps of information that might relate to Corypheus, anyway - and rose from his chair, muttering, “As if the birds weren’t bad enough.”  
  
He stepped to the railing and looked down. He couldn’t see the stairs from his vantage point, but he could see Solas continuing to work on his painting. That was a reassuring sign. If the noise on the stairs had heralded an invasion, Dorian was reasonably sure that Solas would have both noticed it and raised the alarm. As sure as he could ever be of what Solas would do.  
  
He looked back up and noticed that both Helisma and Leliana had likewise been distracted from their work and were looking over the railing. Dorian turned toward the stairs as the clamor reached their top. Its source proved to be but a single dwarf, albeit one covered in enough metal armor to credibly protect a giant. The dwarf’s head alone was uncovered, and Dorian could see the tattoos marked on his face. He couldn’t recall their significance. Dwarven culture was not one of his areas of expertise.  
  
The dwarf smiled as he saw Dorian. “Greetings to you! My name’s Korbin. Sorry for the commotion, but getting a dwarf up stairs sized for surfacers took some doing.”  
  
Dorian nodded in greeting. “I’m Dorian Pavus. You must be one of Commander Cullen’s recruits?”  
  
“Yes. I’m here on loan, you might say, from the Legion of the Dead.”   
  
Ah, that explained the tattoos. Dorian had heard a few stories of the dwarven Legion - dwarves who dedicated themselves to fighting darkspawn, cutting all ties to their previous lives. He had never particularly thought he’d meet one. “What brought you to the Inquisition? I had the impression that one doesn’t simply retire from the Legion of the Dead.”  
  
“Indeed,” Korbin said. “Thus, ‘on loan,’ in token of your alliance with Orzammar. I only know of one dwarf who left the Legion, and she became a Grey Warden.”  
  
“That seems an even trade,” Dorian said drily. “Either way, her eventual fate was fighting darkspawn in the Deep Roads.”  
  
“True, but Wardens usually have the chance to see more than darkspawn,” Korbin said. He looked past Dorian, and his eyes widened at the shelves full of books. “I came up here hoping to find something to help me fight darkspawn, in fact. Could you help me?”  
  
Dorian was quite sure none of the stories he’d heard of the Legion of the Dead had stressed their scholarly tradition. Did the dwarf think that the books were some sort of exotic surfacer weapon? “I’m afraid the armory is over at the other end of Skyhold,” he said.  
  
Korbin barked a quick laugh. “Armor and weapons I am well supplied with. Knowledge is the advantage I seek.”  
  
“In the case, you’ve come to the right part of Skyhold. Though I fear our collection would be overshadowed by any Tevinter Circle’s library. Hmm.” Dorian turned and gently ran his fingers over the spines of the books, thinking back on what he’d seen. He doubted the dwarf was interested in obscure philosophical debates about the nature and origin of darkspawn, but he was fairly sure he’d seen something more practical.  
  
He couldn’t remember where on the shelves it was, though, so he kept searching. Thinking that he should let the dwarf know that he hadn’t forgotten him, he asked, “What do you think of the surface world?”  
  
“There’s so much here that I’d never even dreamed of,” Korbin said wistfully. “There are the big things - the sky, the sun, the stars - but at least I’d heard tales of those, though they couldn’t prepare me for the reality. But the things the tales never mentioned are the ones that take me by surprise. Do you ever think about how remarkable trees are?”  
  
Dorian couldn’t say that he ever had. He tried to imagine what it would be like, living underground and never seeing the sun. It sounded unbearably dreary.  
  
“And there are so many kinds of life,” Korbin continued. “Birds! We don’t have those. Last week I saw a high dragon in flight. It was… remarkable. And here in Skyhold, you have humans, dwarves, elves, Qunari, all working side by side. You’d never see that in Orzammar.”  
  
Dorian found the tome he’d been thinking of and pulled it from the shelf. “Here. It’s a study of darkspawn anatomy, written by a Mortalitasi after the Fourth Blight. He was understandably reluctant to risk much contact with his specimens, but his observations were otherwise quite thorough. It may give you some information .”  
  
Korbin took the book and gave Dorian a respectful nod. “I thank you. I will treat it with respect and return it to your hands.”  
  
“I should make that an oath,” Dorian said archly. “ _Some people_ seem unclear on the proper treatment of books.”  
  
“Thank you for the book, Ser Pavus,” Korbin said.  
  
Dorian found himself reluctant to bid the dwarf farewell. Clearly he had been spending too much time immersed in books, if a chat with a laconic dwarf was sounding more appealing. And, he realized, he was curious why Korbin wanted the book. “Is the Commander sending you out against darkspawn? I had not heard of sightings on the surface. Or is this for your return to the Deep Roads?”  
  
“A few darkspawn have been seen on the Sword Coast, but this is for the Roads,” Korbin said grimly. “My people need anything that can give us an edge.”  
  
“You’re planning on going back? You seemed quite taken with the surface world.”  
  
Korbin hesitated a moment. “You, too? Everyone seems to think that I shouldn’t. Belinda encourages me to stay here. Luka called me crazy for even considering going back, and she’s one to talk. But it’s not a duty I can set aside lightly.”  
  
“I’m sure Orzammar has its pleasures,” Dorian said, trying to keep the skepticism out of his voice. He had heard of the splendour of the dwarven city, but it was hardly a place he was longing to visit.  
  
Korbin grunted. “Those pleasures are barred to a member of the Legion. It’s bad food, worse mead, and death around every corner that awaits me. But against that, there’s good company, tales around a fire, bravery, and honor. And it would pain me to lose my stone sense to the surface.”  
  
Dorian felt a surge of emotion, from what source he wasn’t sure. The words rushed out of him:  “It still seems a poor tradeoff when you can find company, tales, and honor up here. Why go back to a place that has so little to offer you, that cast you into exile? If your role here suits you better, why would you turn your back on it? Who do you owe this to?”  
  
 _Am I arguing with him or with myself?_  
  
Korbin blinked, seemingly taken aback by the passion in Dorian’s voice. “I should say to the Stone, or to the Paragons. But really… to myself, I suppose,” he said slowly. “Thank you again for the book.”  
  
Dorian nodded absently, the question of duty occupying his thoughts, as the dwarf loudly clanked his way back down the stairs.


	3. The Hunter's Tale: Varric and Thornton

Varric had grown used to a procession of unfamiliar faces making their way in and out of the Great Hall and generally ignored their comings and goings. One morning, though, his eye was caught when a man walked in wearing a flared-brimmed hat so impressive as to strike envy into Cole’s heart. The hat-wearer was a comparatively plain man, weather-beaten, dark-skinned, and, aside from the hat, simply dressed, with a heavy bow strapped onto his back. Varric expected the stranger to stride down the great hall to approach the throne, or turn to his left to meet with Josephine, or take the door behind Varric to access the tower. To Varric’s surprise, the man stopped when he reached Varric and stood there staring at him.  
  
“Do I owe you money, or…?” Varric asked lightly.  
  
“Varric Tethras,” the man said, his voice imbuing each syllable with significance. “It is you, isn’t it? The writer?”  
  
“Guilty as charged,” Varric said. “Always good to meet a fan,” he added, hoping that his guess was correct. A shockingly large number of people were somehow convinced that one or another book of his was a direct attack on their character and heritage. If this man was among their number, he’d have to make a quick escape. This was why he preferred to stand close to the tower door - it gave easy access to multiple escape routes.  
  
“I just wanted to say that you spin a fine tale, Ser Tethras.” Good, he _had_ guessed correctly. “I first discovered your work when I was scouting in the Frostbacks. A freak storm blew up, and I had to seek shelter in a rundown hunting cabin. I wound up snowbound there for four days. The only thing standing between me and utter boredom was the copy of _Hard in Hightown_ I found sitting on a table. I read it three times before the wind shifted and I was able to move on. Took the book with me, too.”  
  
“You weren’t sick to death of it by then?” Varric asked. He knew that he could write a page turner, but had little confidence in his books’ staying power.  
  
“No, not at all! I kept noticing new details. It reminded me of an extended scouting mission, where you keep picking up more and more the longer you observe.” The man was smiling at the memory and his eyes were shining. He was either a talented actor, or obviously sincere.  
  
Varric could have hugged him. _That_ would probably occasion a scolding from Josephine about decorous behavior in the great hall, though he suspected she would be more amused than indignant. He settled for his most charming grin and said, “Thank you! Have you read any of my other works, ah… I don’t think I caught your name?”  
  
“Sorry, I’m Thornton, and yes, I have,” the man said eagerly. “Speaking of extended scouting missions… I was working my way through a bog when I ran into an enemy scout. Spotted him just in time to duck behind a tree before he put an arrow in me. He came after me, so I had to shoot him. When I took a look through his pack, it turned out he had a copy of the sequel to _Hard in Hightown_. I went on to scout the enemy, found a good vantage point in a tree, and wound up hiding there all day. I got halfway through the book before night fell and I could slip out unseen. Came back to camp, made my report, then read the rest by lantern-light. I was groggy the next morning, but it was worth it.”  
  
“That’s quite a story,” Varric said, wondering how much of it was true.  
  
Thornton beamed, clearly delighted to have an appreciative audience. “Oh, and I also read _The Tale of the Champion_! I found it while I was hiding in a burning barn. The enemy had set their mabari on me, and I figured the dogs wouldn’t be able to smell me with all the smoke. I was right, and the men didn’t search the barn either. Guess they thought no one would be crazy enough to hide there. Anyway, I found the book in the hayloft and rescued it from the flames. It was a little singed, but still readable. When I got back to the army, we went right on the march, so I was stealing time to read a page or so every time we took a rest break. Gripping stuff.”  
  
Varric decided he didn’t care if the story was true or not. He appreciated a good tale, the man told them well, and the repeated praise of Varric’s work certainly wasn’t hurting. “Thank you,” he said. “You, ah, seem to have spent a fair amount of time hiding.”  
  
“Comes with the job, being a scout,” Thornton said matter-of-factly. “I don’t do my allies any good if I don’t make it back alive, after all. Which reminds me,” he added with a grin, “of how I came to read _Swords and Shields_.”  
  
Varric raised his eyebrows. “That one’s a surprise. You aren’t exactly the target audience I had in mind.”  
  
“Well, it’s a long story,” Thornton said, with an air of reluctance that, to Varric’s eye, was clearly feigned.   
  
“Please tell it,” Varric said.  
  
“We needed to know the enemy’s plans, so I’d slipped into their camp and was going through the general’s papers when I heard men outside. I only had a few moments before I’d be found out. I found an elaborate Orlesian mask and a wig in the tent, and figured they belonged to the general’s wife. So I quickly disguised myself as her, grabbed her well-read copy of _Swords and Shields_ , and then who should walk in but the general and his top aides. I pretended to be completely absorbed in the book, and the general was completely fooled. He proceeded to go over their entire battle plan while I sat there behind the mask. As soon as they left, I hot-footed it out of there before his real life showed up. Nicked the book to finish later, too.”  
  
Varric tried to imagine the weather-beaten man pulling off the imposture. It seemed implausible at best, but it did make for a great story. “You have quite a few war stories. Still accumulating them?” he asked.  
  
“Oh, now and then,” Thornton said cheerily. “Last mission we were on, I was scouting out a Red Templar camp and wound up hiding behind one of those enormous behemoths. You’d think they wouldn’t smell like much, being mostly crystals, but they stink to the heavens. Their remaining flesh gone bad, I guess. I couldn’t sneak out of there fast enough, and had to lift some incense from Sidony to get the smell out of my nostrils. But I’ll be out of this life soon. Once the Inquisition has dealt with the Venatori and Red Templars, I figure I’m going to retire.”  
  
“Don’t say that!” Varric said sharply. “Never say that!”  
  
“Why not?” Thornton asked.  
  
“It’s a death sentence. Trust me. I’ve read and written enough books to know.”  
  
“If you say so,” Thornton said dubiously.  
  
Varric was thinking furiously. He needed a new series, after all, and it sounded like the man had plenty of material. “I’d like to buy you a drink at the tavern sometime. You could tell me some more of your stories, give some more detail.”  
  
“Sure, I don’t see why not,” Thornton said.  
  
“I could even write some of them up for you,” Varric suggested as if it was just occurring to him.  
  
Thornton’s eyes lit up. “I would be flattered!” he said.  
  
 _No mention of payment, either. Excellent._ “How does _Behind Enemy Lines_ strike you as a title?”  
  



	4. The Assassin's Tale: Cole and Argent

Every night she was not on a mission, Argent trained on the walls of Skyhold. The Inquisition had not been nearly as emphatic about her training regimen as her former masters, but they did not need to be. An important part of being a weapon was keeping herself honed. So every night, she spun from shadow to shadow. Duck and slice, parry and stab, fully extend with the dagger, then jump away and disappear. The guards on the walls never saw her. That, too, was part of the training.  
  
It was unprecedented for her to have an audience when she trained.  
  
He stuck to the shadows, quick-moving and whisper-quiet, but she’d spotted him and stole subtle glances at him as she continued her moves. It was the thin, pale boy from the tavern, the one with all the hats. She’d watched enough to know that he was no stranger to shadows and knives himself. She wasn’t sure how skilled he was with the knives, for she’d only seen him use them on the dying. Some had used their last breaths to thank him for the mercy. It struck her as wrong for people to thank their killer.  
  
She was certain that no one had ever thanked her.  
  
Sometimes he cut with words instead of knives. In the tavern, she’d seen him approach the grim dwarf and heard his quiet words. “All red, wet with blood. By the Stone, it’s everywhere. He’s weeping, blubbering, never meant for this to happen. They’ll be here in minutes, they’ll have his head for this… unless I give them mine instead.” The dwarf, who had faced down pride demons without so much as a change in his expression, had blanched. Then the boy had said, “It was a noble act. It doesn’t matter if only one person knows, and he didn’t see that it was good and kind. If you’d let them take him and stayed in Orzammar, you would hate yourself. You did right.”  
  
And the dwarf had thanked him. Argent could not see why. The boy had done nothing. They were just words. They were just words. She asked the dwarf about it, later. He claimed not to know what she was asking about, and the others all said they didn’t remember any boy. But the dwarf’s steps seemed a little lighter, after that.  
  
So what had the boy brought to her - knives or words? Most likely knives. What good would words be to her? If he planned to use his knives on her, he’d not find her an easy target. He might be good, but he couldn’t possibly be as good as her. She’d done nothing but hone and use her skills all these years, while he’d been distracting himself with hats and whispering at people.  
  
She accepted the risk that he’d know he had been detected and looked closer. No knife in his hand; instead, he held something large and round, covered by a cloth. She did not relax; any number of weapons could be concealed in such a manner. She had made use of such a ruse several times, dropping the parcel at the last moment, thrusting with the knife before her target had time to react.  
  
Now the boy was approaching. She abandoned her exercises entirely and dropped into a defensive crouch, ready to strike or flit away as the situation warranted. But he stopped well outside of striking distance.  
  
“Why are you here?” she demanded. “Your words won’t change me like they changed the dwarf.”  
  
“You remember?” he asked quietly, in his reedy voice. “Usually people don’t remember me. I’m here because I have something for you.”  
  
When she said nothing in response, he continued. “It was so hard to see what would help. The little girl hurts so much, but she doesn’t want me to make it better. She’s all hidden away, tangled up inside of you. I don’t know how to bring her out without making it worse. So I had to look for something else to help.”  
  
He pulled the cloth away to reveal a birdcage. The bird within made a single, inquisitive chirp. A parakeet, she thought. She couldn’t see the color well in the darkness, but somehow she knew that it would be blue. Probably he’d overheard gossip from her companions. She might have mentioned the parakeet to them.  
  
He held it out to her, and she recoiled back. “I can’t. I can’t… It would die.”  
  
His eyes seemed to go far away. “The mark is dead, and look what he had, a bird in another golden cage. Can I keep it, mistress? No, she says, you just are a tool. Pets are for people. But I yearn for it, beg and plead. She relents, and my heart pounds. New color, new company, in my small room. But a week later, it lies stiff and still on the floor of the cage, and they laugh. Death is all I bring, they say, all I am.”  
  
She shuddered. _This_ was not gossip he had overheard.  
  
“It wasn’t your fault,” he said soothingly. “They let you have it to teach you a lesson. They didn’t tell you anything about how to care for it. So it died, and they laughed, and blamed you, and made you smaller. It won’t happen this time. I can tell you what he needs to live.”   
  
He could be hers, and live? Could this be possible?  
  
He held the cage out to her again. She hesitated, then sheathed one of her knives and reached out to take it from him. She held it up to her face and tried to look into the bird’s eyes. It chirped again.  
  
“He is curious about you, but also quite sleepy,” the boy said. “You will need to give him food - seeds, and fresh vegetables, fruits, and nuts from the kitchen. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble obtaining those. And he’ll need…”  
  
He prattled on, then broke off, realizing that she was not listening, just gazing into the cage.  
  
The boy sighed. “Perhaps I will come by and feed him. Yes, I think that will be best.”  
  
Argent made no reply, still staring at the bird. Her bird. Her bird that would live.  
  



	5. The Arcane Warrior's Tale: Solas and Cillian

Cillian paused at the door to the tower, feeling an unfamiliar anxious quaver in his stomach. In the past few weeks, he had faced down Venatori spellbinders, demons, and worse and overcome his fear. Approaching a lone elf ought to be far less intimidating. And yet, he would be the first elven elder Cillian had spoken to since leaving his own clan - and the first elf who might have independent knowledge of the ancient rites Cillian had dedicated himself to learning. Would Solas share whatever he might know, or turn him away?  
  
He took a moment to compose himself, then set himself in motion. Standing here like a fool - in plain sight of anyone looking up at the battlements, no less - wasn’t going to accomplish anything. He opened the door and stepped into the tower. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dimmer light, and his first impression was that the room before him was empty. He felt a wash of both disappointment and irrational relief. As his eyes adjusted, his attention was caught by the striking frescoes partially covering the walls. Their stark, primitive style reminded Cillian of the faded murals he’d found in ancient ruins. Some of the symbology seemed obvious - he could easily identify the Breach - and some more obscure.  
  
As he pondered the frescoes, he caught a glimpse of movement above him. A slender figure stood atop a scaffold with his back to Cillian. He was absorbed in painting, the plaster in front of him fresh and wet. Cillian took a moment to admire a master at work, then spoke. “Pardon me, but are you Solas?”  
  
“I am. Who asks?” the answer came. Cillian tried to place the accent and could not. Not surprising, given how many Dalish clans he had never met.  
  
“My name is Cillian, hahren. I was hoping to ask you…” Solas had not turned away from his painting, and it abruptly struck Cillian how rude he was being in his eagerness. “I am so sorry. You are clearly in the midst of your work. I will return another time, with your leave.”  
  
“That would be best,” Solas said absently. Cillian bowed his head. despite knowing that the other elf could not see the gesture. He had taken a few steps toward the door when Solas spoke, more attentive now, “Wait. You are Cillian? The Commander mentioned you to me. He claimed that you had mastered the ancient arts of the arcane warriors.”  
  
“I would not say ‘mastered,’ but I have learned the rudiments,” Cillian said. While he felt a great deal of pride in his accomplishments, he would not compound his rudeness by bragging to an elder.  
  
“Show me,” Solas said, turning away from the wall. Cillian nodded and reached out for the Veil, drawing its energies and focusing them deep within himself. He dropped into a near-trance state, Solas and the tower receding to the edge of his awareness. He felt more than saw his spirit blade manifest in his hand and his magical barrier glimmer to life around him. He moved the blade through the exercises that he had faithfully repeated many times, passing through the poses depicted in the murals and chanting the words he had found underneath them.  
  
Solas spoke above him, breaking the trance. “Remarkable. You’ve clearly grasped the principles and made them your own, even if some moves are merely imitated without understanding. I had thought these arts to be entirely lost to your people.”  
  
 _Your people, not our people?_ Cillian looked up at Solas and realized that his face was unmarked. “You’re not Dalish,” he said in surprise.  
  
“I am not. Does this trouble you?”  
  
“No, of course not,” Cillian said quickly. “I had simply assumed…”  
  
“That one must be Dalish to take an interest in the past?” Solas asked archly. “In my experience, most of the Dalish know little of their past. They cling to half-remembered traditions, stripped of all meaning. I had expected you to be the same. I was wrong in that.”  
  
Cillian instinctively bristled at Solas’s dismissal of the Dalish, but he could not deny that he’d had similar thoughts. They had fueled his determination to leave his clan and seek out the truth underlying the stories. “I believe that my people are doing the best they can with what they have. But in truth, the arts of the arcane warrior had been entirely lost to them. I sought them out and rediscovered them in an ancient shrine.”  
  
“A commendable undertaking. But what brought you to me?” Solas asked.  
  
“The word about this fortress is that you have traveled to many parts of the Fade and seen much there. I hoped that I could learn more from you about the ancient elves and their traditions,” Cillian answered.  
  
Solas shook his head. “I fear what I’ve gleaned from the Fade would be of little use to you. Without their context, many of the ancient ways are shorn of meaning. But when I asked what brought you here, I meant the question more generally. Why did you join the Inquisition?”  
  
“When I saw the great rift in the sky, I knew that I had to end my solitude and offer aid. I see the Inquisition fighting a great danger. I understand that the arcane warriors were protectors of the people of Elvhanen. I would use my skills to protect not only the Dalish, but all people of Thedas.”  
  
Solas looked at him silently for several moments, then said, “I recall a scene from the Fade that may be informative for you after all.” He paused again, seeming to turn his thoughts inward just as Cillian had done. “I saw an elven lord upon a gilded throne. Before him stood two guards with blades of light extended from their palms. A crowd of people cried out, begging aid, but spirit swords held them at bay. No cries could reach the lord’s fair ears.”  
  
Cillian stared up at him. “You’re saying… that the arcane warriors were just guards for the elite, not servants of the people? That can’t be. The runes in the shrine said…”  
  
He fell silent, thinking back to his years of study and meditation. Among the runes were those he had translated as guard, protect, and serve, but other runes were beyond his ability to read, either damaged or unfamiliar to him. Who had the arcane warriors guarded, protected, and served? Had he merely read from the runes what he wanted to see?   
  
Solas’s face betrayed little expression, but Cillian thought he saw compassion in his eyes. He asked Solas, “Why have you told me this? What would you have me do? I’ll not abandon the people to become the Inquisitor’s bodyguard.”  
  
“No,” Solas said, his face still unreadable but his voice fervent. “I told you this to encourage you not to be bound by history. You would do far better to improve on it, to take what you have learned and forge a new path.”  
  
Cillian bowed his head. “Ma serannas,” he said.  
  
Solas dismissed him with a wave, already turning back his art. Cillian set off to look for a quiet space to meditate. He had much to consider.  
  



	6. The Templar's Tale: Blackwall and Belinda

Belinda was delighted when she saw the broad-shouldered man inside the stables, carving away at a wooden figure. At last, they were both at Skyhold at the same time. She practically skipped into the stables and called out, “I’m so glad to finally meet you!”  
  
The man straightened to look at her. She marveled at the majesty of his beard as a puzzled look formed on his face. “I’m afraid you must have me confused with someone else. Maybe you’re looking for Master Dennet? I think he’s around the side of the building.”  
  
Belinda directed her most winning smile at him. “No, I was looking for Blackwall, the Grey Warden, and I’m pretty sure that you’re him.”  
  
“That’s a good guess,” Blackwall said gruffly. He put down his carving tool and looked Belinda up and down. The inspection was slightly unnerving. He reminded her of a warrior sizing up a potential enemy. After so much time in battle, she supposed, the habit might be ingrained in him.  
  
She smiled again, hoping to put him at ease. “It is _such_ a pleasure to meet you. I’m Belinda.” She had a brief memory of her templar superiors chiding her for being overly familiar. “Uh, Ser Belinda Darrow.” She bowed politely.  
  
“Ah. You’re a templar, then?” Blackwall asked.  
  
“I am. Though I’m no longer with the Order, I serve the Inquisition now. They are the most righteous cause in these hard times,” she said with enthusiastic fervor.  
  
“What do you need from me, Ser Belinda?” Blackwall asked.  
  
“I just hoped we could talk about the Grey Wardens for a bit,” Belinda said.  
  
Blackwall’s shoulders went back, and she could see the tension in the cords of his neck. “What do you know about the Grey Wardens?”  
  
“Very little. You’re the first Warden I’ve actually met,” she admitted. Oddly, he seemed to relax at that. “I was only a child during the Blight, but I remember all the adults being terrified of the darkspawn. They thought that once Ferelden fell, the darkspawn would spill across the Waking Sea and sack the Free Marches. When word came that the Hero of Ferelden and the other Wardens had saved us by defeating the archdemon, there was a party the likes of which I’ll probably never see again. Everyone was talking about the Wardens’ heroism and courage, how they saved everyone despite the cost to themselves. I’ve admired you ever since. Wardens, I mean, not just you personally.”  
  
Blackwall scowled. “We are just men and women like any other, milady.”  
  
“But I don’t think that’s true!” Belinda said. “You’ve dedicated your life to serving something greater than yourself. That’s something special.”  
  
‘Is that why you joined the templars?” Blackwall asked.  
  
Belinda thought a moment. “Partly. I wanted to protect people, to make a difference. And I’d always been drawn to the Chantry. Then I met the Divine, and knew I was on the right path. She seemed to embody everything that I could ever desire to be.” She was quiet for a moment, remembering a resplendent woman in her formal robes whose words for her were gracious and kind, and then sobering as she remembering her fate. She shook away the bitter memory, and deliberately grinned at Blackwall. “Also, it made my parents very happy. My family’s known for its devotion to the Chant, but my older brothers, ah, didn’t really share it.”  
  
“So you’ve known for most of your life what you wanted?” Blackwall asked. When she nodded, he said, “I envy you that.”  
  
“Why did you join the Grey Wardens?” Belinda asked.  
  
Blackwall stiffened again. “Among the Wardens, we don’t discuss our pasts, or what led us to become Wardens. Only the person we are now matters.”  
  
“My apologies, I meant no offense. As I said, I know little of the Wardens,” Belinda said.  
  
“No offense was taken. So did you follow the other templars to Therinfal Redoubt?”  
  
Belinda was sure that Blackwall was deliberately changing the subject, but given that she’d apparently breached Grey Warden etiquette by asking about his past life, she was glad to be provided with the outlet. “No. When the templars broke from the Chantry to pursue war against the mages, I stayed with the Chantry. My loyalty was to the Divine, not to the Knight-Commanders who abandoned her.”  
  
“Do you have regrets about that?”  
  
She shook her head. “I made the right choice. If I’d followed the templars, I might have wound up as one of those horrid lyrium-corrupted creatures.” She paused, thinking, and dropped her eyes to the ground. “Or if not… Can you imagine how it would feel, to have followed your commander’s orders, believing them to be righteous, only to find that you had been part of something horrible?” She added more cheerfully, “I’ve been much better off with the Chantry and the Inquisition.”  
  
Blackwall was silent. She glanced up at him and couldn’t keep herself from gasping in horror. He looked like he’d been stabbed in the gut, his face gray and haggard. “I’m sorry!” she blurted. “Apparently I keep saying the wrong things…”  
  
Blackwall sat down heavily and took a deep breath. “I don’t blame you,” he said slowly. ‘There was no way you could know… But if you please, I would prefer to be alone.”  
  
“Of course,” Belinda said, but she found it hard to turn away from the man. She had hurt him without meaning to, and he seemed so lonely. She backed away a few steps to indicate she was leaving, but offered, “I could come to visit you again, if you wish.”  
  
Blackwall rested his chin in his hand. “No, I think you shouldn’t. There are far better men and women to spend your time with in this fortress. You should introduce yourself to Seeker Pentaghast. Or Commander Cullen, or even the Inquisitor.”  
  
How could the man be so blind to his own heroism? Did he not know how inspirational his mere presence was? She smiled at him, hoping to lighten his mood. “But I know you’re a good man. Everyone here agrees on that. I heard that when the Inquisitor found you, you were teaching peasants to defend themselves against bandits. Never mind all those years you spent fighting darkspawn.”  
  
“Leave me be. Please,” was his pained reply.  
  
She wanted to protest further, but she knew she had to obey his repeated pleas. She could only hope as she walked away that the Inquisition’s successes would eventually overwhelm whatever was troubling him. In that, she could play a small part.  



	7. The Elementalist's Tale: Vivienne and Rion

Rion dashed up the stairs to the Haven Chantry, eager to get his report delivered to the Ambassador. He was not, mind, looking forward to the actual report. While he felt the mission had been an overall success, he was not sure how Lady Josephine would take the news that her messenger was “singed, but alive.” But Rion was a strong believer in getting unpleasant things out of the way as quickly as possible, and after the report was over he could relax in the tavern.  
  
As he entered the Chantry, he glanced around. His eyes were caught by a woman standing to his left, wearing a magnificent white Orlesian hennin. It took Rion a moment to place where he’d seen it before, and then he remembered…  
  
_Whooping as he hurls bursts of fire one after another at the loyalist mages. Madden on his left, Tara on his right, each attacking with their own conjurations. The loyalists lowering their staffs as one, sending out a blast of ice that quenches Rion’s fires. Desperately conjuring fire to ward the ice away, seeing it stop inches from his face. Beside him, Madden and Tara down, faces encrusted with rime. Then running, trying to outrun the sight of his dead friends and the woman in the tall white hat, the woman who’d slain them…_  
  
He came back to his senses. He was no longer on a sun-drenched battlefield in Orlais; he was in the dim light of the Chantry. But somehow, the Lady Vivienne was here too. His hands gestured of their own volition, calling a magic barrier to glimmering life around him.  
  
Vivienne shot him a disdainful look. “If I meant you harm, young man,” she said, “you would have been dead long before you managed that spell.”  
  
Rion took a moment to work that out. “Right,” he said, dismissing the barrier with a wave of his hand. “Uh, Lady Vivienne. What are you doing here?”  
  
“ _I_ am lending my aid to the Inquisition, which is in sore need of it,” Vivienne said. “And who might you be?”  
  
“Oh. Yes,” Rion stammered. “I’m, ah, Rion. From Ostwick.”  
  
“Ah. I once lived in the Ostwick Circle, as well, though you must have been very young when I left. If you had even been born.” Rion felt young indeed under her assessing gaze. “Were you at all acquainted with Senior Enchanter Lydia?”  
  
“Only from a distance,” Rion said. Once he had started espousing the cause of mage freedom, Lydia and the like-minded senior mages had tended to shun him.  
  
“She was a dear friend of mine,” Vivienne said. Her look struck Rion as distrustful, even accusatory, and he abruptly remembered that Lydia had been killed, allegedly by rebel mages.  
  
“I’m sorry - about what happened to her,” he blurted. “I can’t imagine that anyone from Ostwick would have been involved. We never would have raised our hand against a fellow mage without being forced to it.”  
  
Vivienne raised an eyebrow. “Who _did_ you raise a hand against? Do I surmise correctly that you were part of the mage rebellion?”  
  
“I was. Mages deserve to be free,” Rion said defiantly. “But… I came to realize that the war was doing more harm than good.”  
  
“As wars so often do,” Vivienne said. “As you were no doubt counselled by those older and wiser than yourself. I do wish, darling, that you had listened to them.”  
  
Ron didn’t think “darling” was a term of affection, not the way that it formed on her lips. “They would have had the mages do nothing! In the face of abuses by the templars, Meredith Stannard’s reign of terror, the annulment of Dairsmuid. Were we to just sit in our Circles and wait for the axe to fall on us?” He realized he was getting louder as other people in the Chantry startied to stare. Well, let them.  
  
Vivienne’s voice was quiet in comparison, but cutting. “So instead you blundered out and made the situation worse, building on Anders’s unconscionable destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry to make mages more feared across Thedas than we’d been in decades. Well done, indeed.”  
  
“Anders is a hero,” Rion protested. He was momentarily sidetracked by wondering if “is” was the right word. Was Anders alive or dead? He had no idea. “Ah, his act drew the world’s attention to how mages were suffering in Kirkwall.”  
  
“Is there a specific number of innocents that one must to kill to become a hero?” Vivienne asked. Her gaze was almost piercing in its intensity, and a vertical line had appeared between her eyes. “Or is heroism more dependent on killing them in a sufficiently symbolic way?”  
  
Rion flinched. The accounts he’d heard had, indeed, focused on the building. “I haven’t ever heard that many people were killed.”  
  
Vivienne sighed. “No, dear. You wouldn’t have.”  
  
Rion felt he was an unsteady ground. “At least we’re on the same side now, right?”  
  
“Are we?” Vivienne asked. “Now that it seems likely that the Inquisition will intervene in the war between mages and templars, what do you hope comes of that intervention?”  
  
Rion didn’t hesitate. “I would hope that we mages are given our freedom.”  
  
Vivienne smiled a little smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “There, you see. I would see the Circles re-established, and you would see mages loosed upon the land, to struggle on their own against demons or be made pawns of the unscrupulous. Your goals are not mine.”  
  
“You would restore the Circles?” Rion asked in genuine horror. “Return everyone to their cages? Put mages back under the control of the templars, after everything that they’ve done?” There was a shimmer in the air in front of him. He made an effort to reign in his magic before he set something ablaze.  
  
A brief hand motion from Vivienne sent a cooling breeze to break up the haze. “The templar Order requires reform and new guidance, certainly, but there is no reason to discard it. The templars can be our friends, not our enemies. When an abomination erupts, mages have always been glad enough to have templars to deal with it.”  
  
“And how many abominations would never have been without the templars bearing down on mages?” Rion countered.  
  
“A hypothetical, dear. Weigh it against the certain harm that one unchecked abomination can and will do.”  
  
“Why do you insist we need templars? Why don’t you think we mages can keep watch on ourselves?”  
  
Vivienne sighed once more. “Because I’ve known too many mages.”  
  
It struck Rion as a weak rejoinder, and he seized his opportunity to exit the conversation with the upper hand. “I should deliver my report to Lady Montilyet before the hour grows late.”  
  
“Go on then, darling,” Vivienne said with a wave of her hand. This “darling” fairly dripped with venom, making her previous use of the world sound affectionate in retrospect.  
  
Rion strode off toward the far end of the Chantry, trying to settle his nerves. Perhaps some of the onlookers had been convinced by his arguments to support more freedom for mages. At least, he thought, they must feel that he had held his own.  



	8. The Archer's Tale: Iron Bull and Hall

Hall scrambled through the door and scanned the tavern for familiar faces. He was startled not to find Rion, Korbin, Thornton, or Cillian anywhere in the common room. Wasn’t this where they’d been supposed to meet? Was he so late that they had given up on him? Or had he somehow arrived late, but before any of his friends? (Or comrades-in-arms, at least. He was having trouble figuring out the difference.)   
  
He tentatively approached the dwarven bartender and performed the still-novel exchange of coin for beverage. Beer in hand, he stood in front of the bar, sipping his drink, nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot, and watching the door for any sign of his friends. At the sound of heavy footsteps behind him, he whirled, hand reaching for a bow that he had left in the barracks.  
  
He found himself looking at the mammoth pectoral muscles of an equally gargantuan Qunari. Hall craned his neck back to look at the giant’s face. He wore an eyepatch over his left eye, a scruffy beard, and a set of parallel scars under his right eye. This must be the mercenary leader and Inquisitorial bodyguard he’d heard about, with some fanciful name. The Metal Bear? No, that didn’t sound quite right.  
  
“Are you looking for the others? The dwarf, the old archer, and the two mages?” the Qunari asked. “They said you were supposed to meet them here.”  
  
“Where are they?” Hall asked tentatively. He couldn’t help himself from an absurd thought: _did you eat them?_   
  
“Probably on their way to some old ruin or army camp,” the colossus said, with a low chuckle. “They hadn’t even had time to order drinks when Leliana came through the door like something was on fire. She yelled that she needed a team and they’d do as well as any, and practically dragged them out the door.”  
  
“Oh,” Hall said, disappointed. He didn’t envy his fellows their night march to some doubtless nightmarish destination, but had been looking forward to having drinks with them. (Even if, he had to admit, it had been a struggle for him to work up the courage to actually show up. That was probably what had seized him to start restringing his bow just before they were scheduled to meet.)  
  
“Need a drinking partner?” the Qunari asked, pointing an elbow at the nearly full mug of beer in Hall’s hand. “My men are out on a mission of their own, and drinking alone’s no good.”  
  
Hall almost turned him down. He was finding the muscular Qunari almost impossibly intimidating. But after the effort of will he’d made to show up, the thought of going back to an empty barracks was depressing. “All right,” he said.  
  
“Drinking partners should know each other’s names,” the other said, waving Hall toward a table. “I’m the Iron Bull.” _Ah, I was close._  
  
“That sounds more like a title than a name,” Hall pointed out.  
  
“It’s what I’ve got. You’ll have to live with it,” the Bull said amicably. “And you?”  
  
“I’m Hall. Not the Hall, just Hall.”  
  
“So, Hall,” the Bull said, as they settled into chairs, “where do you hail from? Your accent sounds almost Dalish.’  
  
No one had ever placed his accent before, or at least, no one had mentioned it. “I was raised by a Dalish hunter,” Hall said. He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering Fanora’s hands guiding his to the right positions on his bow, a miniature version of her own.  
  
“A Dalish living among humans?” the Bull asked, waving at the barmaid for a drink. “That seems unusual.”  
  
“Ah, no,” Hall said. “I was a human living among the Dalish.”  
  
“That strikes me as even more unusual,” the Bull said, accepting a tankard nearly the size of Hall’s head. “I’m surprised that her clan would permit such a thing.”  
  
“They didn’t want to, but Fanora - the one who found me - insisted. She kept me there for years, despite the Keeper’s complaints. But when I started to get my full growth, she took me out and left me alone in the forest.”  
  
“Poor lad,” the Bull said. “How did you react?”  
  
Hall hunched his shoulders, thinking back to those days. This was another question he’d never been asked. The few times he’d told the story before, his listener had reacted with shock and then change the subject. “I was scared, and angry at her. I didn’t understand how she could abandon me. But once I had time to think about it… I’m sure the Keeper gave her a choice, me or the clan. I can’t blame her for not giving up everything for me.”  
  
‘Where did you go?” the Bull asked. He kept up a steady line of gentle questioning, leaving enough gaps for Hall to gradually down his beer. By the time his mug was empty, he had told the Iron Bull his entire life story, and his only regret was that it wasn’t more exciting.  
  
“You’re out of drink,” the Bull observed in a disapproving tone. Beckoning to the barmaid, he said something softly in her ear that Hall couldn’t catch. She nodded and headed for the bar.  
  
“You should meet Dalish,” the Iron Bull added lightly.  
  
“You know someone _named_ Dalish?” Hall asked, puzzled.  
  
“It’s what we call her. She was also abandoned by her clan. She’s, ah, also an archer, though a different kind from you. I think you two would get along.”  
  
Hall had barely spoken with one of the People in years. He’d known that if he approached a clan, he wouldn’t get a friendly reception. He’d met two Dalish at Skyhold, but while Cillian seemed friendly, his devotion to ancient magics made Hall nervous, and Neria had been downright hostile. “I’d like that,” he said quietly.  
  
The barmaid returned with another enormous tankard for the Iron Bull and a somewhat more reasonable-size one for Hall. Hall sniffed at it and recoiled as a burning pain shot through his nose. “Uh, what is this?”  
  
“Drink!” the Bull declared. Hall wasn’t sure whether it was an answer or a command.  
  
Hall took a cautious sip and doubled over coughing. Whatever it was, it burned all the way down. The Iron Bull leaned over the table to pound him on the back. Hall wasn’t actually sure that was helping.  
  
“Guess the Dalish never let you sample any of their good stuff, did they?” the Bull asked. He took an enormous swig of the pain liquor, then gave a deep-satisfied sounding sigh.  
  
“I don’t think the Dalish had anything like _this_ ,” Hall said. He cautiously tried another sip. He couldn’t tell if anticipating the burn made it better or worse.  
  
“Oh, they do,” the Bull said, laughing. “Or at least this one clan I met in the Free Marches did. We’d been hired to guard this idiot noble who was dabbling in trade. He was convinced that we could cut days off our journey with a ‘short cut’ that went right by the Dalish camp. This ‘new trade route’ was going to make him and his family rich. What an ass.”  
  
“What happened?” Hall asked. His third gulp seemed to go down a bit more easily.  
  
“A hundred Dalish arrows aimed right at our faces, that’s what happened. The noble kept posturing at them like both right and might were on our side. So I knocked him out and dumped him in a carriage, and Krem negotiated safe passage in exchange for a generous cut of his trade goods. Things got a lot friendlier after that.” He laughed again, Hall wasn’t sure at what.  
  
The Iron Bull kept on talking, piling ever more improbable stories on top of each other. Hall was beginning to find his voice oddly soothing. The motions of folk around the tavern slowly began to blur and recede, and eventually everything went black….  
  
#  
  
Hall woke up with a pounding headache in a bed that was not his own. Sunlight leaked around the curtain covering the window and bored into his skull. He groaned.  
  
“Drink this,” the Iron Bull said cheerily, rising from a chair across the room and approaching the bed with a rough pottery cup. “Old Qunari hangover remedy. Tastes worse than anything you can imagine, but it’ll ease the headache.”  
  
Hall moaned again. “What happened? I don’t remember…”  
  
The Bull dropped his jaw in shock. “You’ve forgotten our night of passion? I’m appalled!”  
  
Hall sat bold upright in bed. “WHAT?”  
  
The Bull slapped his knee, laughing. The sound sent new spikes of pain through Hall’s head. “I actually had you going there? You passed out in the tavern, and I thought you’d rather not wake up slumped over a table there. Even in Skyhold, someone might decide to separate you from your coin pouch. So I carried you up here and tucked you into bed.” His visage became morose as he looked into the cup. “I think I just fed your hangover remedy to the carpet. I’ll mix you up another.”  
  
Hall blearily watched him leave. Apparently, he’d somehow managed to befriend a Qunari. The Inquisition was proving to offer no end of new experiences, but, headache aside, this one had proven more pleasant than most.  
  



	9. The Alchemist's Tale: Luka and Sera

With the windows in Sera’s room open, talk in the courtyard was easy to hear. Hard not to hear, really. A good thing, most times - a chance to hear some gossip, learn something new, not be bored. If the noise bothered, she could always close the windows. But she hadn’t taken a room one floor up from a busy tavern because noise bothered her much.  
  
Right now, she was half-listening to a few of Cullen’s folks just leaving the quartermaster’s. They’d just been on a mission. Saved a messenger or an old scroll or some such shite.  
  
“Are you sure you won’t join us for a drink, Luka?” Sera knew that voice. The elf stopped in at the tavern for a drink now and then. _So_ elfy, but at least not as in your face about it as Solas.  
  
“No! I want to repack my mines. Something’s wrong with the powder. Not a big enough explosion.” A woman’s voice, cheerful and unfamiliar to Sera. Explosion talk got her attention, though. She listened more closely.  
  
“Not big enough? One of those blasts took the hem off my robe!” That was the human mage. So full of himself, Sera was amazed that he fit.  
  
“You should stay further away, silly!” The same woman’s voice. They were moving past her room. Sera was going to need to move if she wanted to hear more about the explosions.   
  
She really wanted to hear more about the explosions.  
  
Stepping quietly, she ducked through her window and onto the lower roof of the tavern. (Now that was a reason she’d taken this room. Never boxed in, with a roof exit.) There went the elf and human, striding through the rectangle of light in front of the tavern door. Their former companion, where had she gone? Sera looked again and saw a small dwarf heading across the courtyard. Small dwarf, ha. Like a large giant or a burning fire, that was.  
  
She dropped quietly from roof to ground, then ran for a moment to catch up with the dwarf. “Explosions, yeah? You were just saying?”  
  
Sera was used to people being caught off guard when she appeared, but the dwarf looked at her as if it were entirely normal for people to appear out of the night and ask about blowing things up. Then, to Sera’s surprise, the dwarf went up on tiptoe to sniff her sleeve.  
  
She broke into a smile. “You smell of cookies! And, hmm, leather and salt. I’m Luka.”  
  
“Sera. That’s me. Do you smell everyone you meet?”  
  
“Smells tell you a lot. They don’t lie,” Luka said cheerfully. “So, you want to see my mines?”  
  
“You have mines?” Sera asked, wrinkling her nose in confusion. “Like, carts and pickaxes and sweaty miners?”  
  
“No, not that kind of mines,” Luka said. “The kind that explode.” She pondered for a moment, hands toying with the pouches at her side. “Well, I guess the other kind can too, but I mean the kind that are supposed to.”  
  
“Oh! Yes, I want to see your mines,” Sera said. It seemed like a response to a very strange pick-up line. She giggled.  
  
“They’re in the Undercroft,” Luka said, gesturing vaguely downward.  
  
“I’ll mine your Undercroft, heheh,” Sera muttered, and broke into more giggles.  
  
Luka seemed unperturbed. “I’ll take you there.”  
  
Sera had never been down to the cavern underneath Skyhold. The Inquisitor already dragged her through more than enough caves for her liking. She could imagine this one being pretty, though, with the big opening at one end. Right now it was mostly dark, elf eyes or no. Luka took a small white stone from a pouch and rubbed it against her tunic. The stone lit up with a soft glow.  
  
“What’s that? Magic of some sort?” Sera asked warily.  
  
Luka shook her head violently. “Oh, no. It’s glow-in-the-dark stone. I don’t know if scholars have another name for it. I discovered it when I was trapped in the Vimmark Mountains.”  
  
“How’d that happen?” Apparently she was going to spend all her time with Luka asking questions. It was like her and the Inquisitor, but backwards.  
  
Luka frowned and started fiddling with her pouches again. “I was working for the stupid Carta. Things blew up in their face and I got stuck in the tunnels. They had lots of down, but no out. That’s how I worked out my mines, trying to blast my way out of there.”  
  
“How long you were down there?”  
  
Luka shrugged. Her hand movements seemed more agitated. “I don’t know. Years, at least.”  
  
Years in the dark, with all that stone pressing down on you. Sera shuddered. “Shite.”   
  
Luka shrugged again. “Here they are!” she said, holding the glowing stone above a workbench covered with colorful glass spheres. Each sphere was filled with a powdery mixture.  
Luka picked up a red sphere and, without warning, tossed it on the floor. Sera flinched despite herself. With a loud pop, it burst apart, covering the stone around it in flame.  
  
“Nice!” Sera said. Her mind was racing. Good for combat, sure, but also good for making nobles lose their lunches. She was going to need some of these. “What are the colors for?”  
  
“They make them pretty! Oh, and they help me tell them apart. I’ve got three different kinds - one burns, one freezes, one shocks. If someone’s coming at me, though, I usually just throw a double handful at ‘em.”  
  
“Oh, I’ll bet!” Sera was going to need a _lot_ of these.   
  
“You want to see what else I’ve made?” Luka asked. Sera nodded vigorously, but Luka had moved on to the neighboring workbench without waiting for her reply. This table was half-covered with vials full of viscous liquid. “These are my flasks.”  
  
“You drink these?” Sera was dubious. Looked more like something you’d curse your luck for stepping in, they did.  
  
“Oh no no, that would be a messy way to die,” Luka said cheerily. “I put them on my armor. It’s got to be prepped first, though. Dagna helped me figure that out.”  
  
“And then, it does what?” Sera was feeling Inquisitorial again.  
  
“Covers me in fire or frost or lightning!” Luka said, opening her arms in a broad gesture. Sera quickly reached out and grabbed a flask before it hit the ground. Luka didn’t seem to notice. “Depends on the flask. Now anything that tries to hit me will get frozen or burned. Or shocked! Once I get the lightning one working. Right now it just makes my hair stand on end.”  
  
“Foes that get up close,” Sera mused, “that’s a nasty surprise for them, innit? They’re all, ‘I’m gonna squash the archer,’ and then I’m, ‘The _flaming_ archer,’ and they’re just, “Aaah, it burns!’” Sera and Luka both grinned gleefully at the thought. “But… don’t you get burned or frozen yourself?”  
  
“Only a little,” Luka said. “Hard on the armor, though. Have to keep bothering Morris for dwarven leathers. Then Dagna helps gets them ready.”  
  
Wouldn’t be a problem for Sera. The Inquisitor kept finding new suits of armor and offering them to her like candy. “Who’s this Dagna, then?”  
  
“You haven’t met Dagna? You should! She’s down here all the time making stuff. She’s amazing. Likes a good explosion, too. Not like Harritt, he just complains.” She put her hands to her face in imitation of the smith’s beard. “‘Aggh, I can’t breathe in all this smoke!’ Anyway, you can take some mines now, and we’ll get you ready for the flasks later.”  
  
Sera grinned at her. “I can’t wait. Luka, I owe you.”  
  
Luka smiled back. “Let me know if you think of any improvements. Or find something new we can throw at enemies!”  
  
That, Sera could help with right now. “Bees! Let me tell you about bees…”


	10. The Necromancer's Tale: Cullen and Sidony

The knock on Cullen’s door interrupted his glum contemplation of the ever-growing pile of papers on his desk. Knocking was a bit unusual - usually people just burst in without warning, sometimes only to march across his office and out the other side. “Come in,” he called. Whatever this interruption was, it had to be preferable to paperwork..  
  
A plain-featured woman wearing an ornate set of robes swept into the room. She looked about, rather as if she owned the place and didn’t care much for Cullen’s choice of decor. Her gaze settled on him, and she sniffed. “You’re the templar?” she asked.  
  
Cullen sighed. How many times was he going to have to explain this? “I’m no longer a templar. I left the Order to join the Inquisition.”  
  
She glared at him. “You may not call yourself a templar, but you doubtless still think like one. Once a templar, always a templar.”  
  
Cullen considered arguing the point. The prospect made the paperwork look more appealing. “Did you have some business with me, or did you just stop by to share your opinions on templars? And ex-templars,” he couldn’t resist adding.  
  
“I’m newly arrived here, by arrangement with your spymaster. I intend to learn what I may from observations of the Breach and from your library. In return, I will undertake whatever tiresome chores she feels the need to assign me.”  
  
Cullen did recall Leliana mentioning this new recruit. “Oh, you must be the necromancer.” Her brow wrinkled at his use of the word. “Sidony, wasn’t it?”  
  
“Yes. I practice the arts of the _Mortalitasi_.” She carefully emphasized each syllable of the word, as if teaching it to a particularly slow-witted child. “Thus, my visit to you.”  
  
Cullen raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”  
  
Her brow wrinkled again. “The ignorant frequently confuse our arts with blood magic. I need to know that you won’t decide one day that I’m evil, templar.” Contempt practically oozed from her voice.  
  
“I assure you,” Cullen said sharply, “that I’m very much capable of recognizing blood magic. I served for years in Kinloch Hold and Kirkwall. I had more than my share of opportunities to observe it.”  
  
“Can you say the same for the other templars here?” Sidony demanded.  
  
He breathed a frustrated sigh. “I assure you that none of the _former_ templars in this fortress will raise a hand against you. Assuming that you do not, in fact, practice blood magic, or start dragging their comrades’ corpses off for experimentation.”  
  
Sidony glared at him again. Or continued to glare. Glaring seemed to be her default expression. “You southerners have the strangest ideas about corpses. But very well, I will respect your quaint views and your ignorant prejudices against my arts,” she said.  
  
That got under Cullen’s skin. Who in Thedas had put more effort than him into overcoming their “ignorant prejudices” against mages? “You don’t know me at all, Sidony. Dorian Pavus and I play chess on a regular basis, and he’s a necromancer, just like you.”  
  
“The Tevinter whelp?” Sidony said with a sniff. “A dilettante at best, never trained by a true Mortalitasi. He barely deserves even the crude appellation you bestow… wait. _You_ play chess?”  
  
“Occasionally,” Cullen said.  
  
“I suppose even a small-minded lout can learn how to move the pieces around,” Sidony said reflectively.  
  
Cullen weighed his options. The stack of paper on his desk should take priority, but Josephine and Leliana _did_ keep insisting that he worked too hard. And, he admitted, it was hard to resist the opportunity to put this arrogant mage in her place. Assuming that he could win - but she sounded like she’d spent her life focused on magic, not chess. He made his decision. “Would you care for a game?”  
  
For the first time, Cullen saw conflicting emotions play across Sidony’s face. He guessed that distaste for his company was warring with her reluctance to back down from a perceived challenge. Probably, she would enjoy putting him in his place as well. After a few moments, she said grudgingly, “I suppose I can spare the time for one game. Do you have a board here?”  
  
“I do.” Cullen carefully moved the papers aside and lifted the polished wooden box holding the board and pieces onto the table. “White or black?”  
  
“Black,” she said immediately. Both fell silent as they set up the board, and stayed that way through their first ten moves. She played with quiet assurance. Cullen was already suspecting that he had overestimated his chances. If nothing else, though, it was a pleasant change to be able to consider his next move without Dorian’s continual taunting.  
  
“How did you learn to play?” he asked, genuinely curious.  
  
“Etiquette and comportment training. The one component of it with any value.” Sidony said. “Now will you be quiet? I stayed here for the game, not to listen to your yapping.”  
  
Cullen considered her silence a fair trade-off for his. Besides, her brief answer had given him what he needed, the key to understanding her style of play. She was indeed well-trained and probably more familiar with the classic strategies than he was. But she was over-reliant on her training, not a particularly creative or innovative player. Her style struck Cullen as perfectly opposed to Dorian’s unpredictable, impatient risk-taking.  
  
He began to play more aggressively, giving Sidony opportunities to take his pieces at the risk of disrupting her defense. She opted to maintain it and  leave his pieces unmolested, and that gave Cullen the initiative. He crafted a swift attack on her monarch and was two turns away from victory when she gave a deep frown. After a brief consideration of the board, she tipped her piece onto its side.  
  
“Not bad at all,” she said. To Cullen’s surprise, she sounded sincerely impressed. He wisely refrained from gloating and simply nodded in acknowledgement. She rose from the table, sweeping her robes around her. “Where can I find Dorian Pavus?”  
  
Cullen gestured in the direction of the tower. “In the library, on the second floor of the tower.”  
  
She turned without another word and swept out the door. Cullen wondered why she was seeking out Dorian. Did she want to compare notes on their magical studies? She’d projected nothing but contempt for the Tevinter mage’s abilities…  
  
No, he realized. This had nothing to do with magic. She was planning to challenge Dorian to a chess game.  
  
Cullen wished that he could follow and watch the game. The difference in styles alone would make for a fascinating match, but beyond that, there was no way Dorian was keep his mouth shut all game. The contempt, condescension, and sarcastic gibes that would doubtless be flying over the table! To say nothing of Sidony’s likely reaction if Dorian tried to cheat…  
  
He would have to trust that Leliana would observe any goings-on in the tower closely. With luck, he would be able to get a full report from her later. With that thought, Cullen sighed and turned back to his papers.  



	11. The Keeper's Tale: Josephine and Neria

Josephine stepped into the Skyhold gardens, gratefully breathing in the fresh air. She had spent the day closeted in her office, reviewing the trade agreements her negotiators had arranged with the Antivan merchant princes. The negotiators had done an exemplary job; there was nothing in the documents to concern her, which made the time spent poring over them seem even more of a waste. After a day like this, the chance to breathe the air and be among growing things was a welcome tonic.  
  
She looked around the garden, automatically classifying faces as familiar or unfamiliar. She murmured greetings to Mother Giselle, who offered her a blessing in return, and the gardener, Elan, who simply gave an acknowledging nod. Among the shrubs by the gazebo, she spotted an elven woman she didn’t recognize. She wore Dalish garb, and her face bore the blood writing of that people. Josephine tried to recall which elven god the symbols corresponded to, but couldn’t place them.  
  
Josephine remembered Leliana mentioning a Dalish emissary - the Keeper’s First from Ralaferin Clan, who had come to aid the Inquisition. Relations with Ralaferin were potentially important to the Inquisition, since they were among the least isolationist of Dalish clans, willing to share Dalish lore with human scholars. Even if the First - Neria, that was her name - was here more to fight than to negotiate, she was a potentially important diplomatic link, and it was incumbent on Josephine to greet her.  
  
Josephine walked over to Neria, mentally reciting the few words of the elven tongue that she knew. Neria appeared to take no notice of her until Josephine carefully pronounced, “Andaran atish’an.”  
  
Neria looked up at her, eyes narrowed. “Ne dirth?” she asked.  
  
Josephine was struck by how young Neria looked. Could the elven emissary really be little more than a child? Putting the thought away, Josephine shook her head regretfully. “I’m afraid I’ve exhausted my knowledge of your language.” She gave a charming smile to soften the words. “I’m Josephine Montilyet, chief diplomat of the Inquisition. I welcome you to Skyhold.”  
  
“So, the chief diplomat has learned two words of my tongue. Am I to be impressed?” Neria studied Josephine’s face closely. “Or grateful, perhaps, that you make the effort?”  
  
Josephine was startled. The few Dalish elves Josephine she previously encountered had invariably appreciated the gesture. Keeping her voice calm, she answered, “Nothing of the sort, I assure you. I wish only to welcome you as best I can.”  
  
“At the same time,” Neria continued in disgust, appearing to disregard Josephine’s words, “you and yours take for granted that I can speak your shemlen language.”  
  
Josephine considered several arch responses - _Oh? You speak Antivan?_ or _I thought Dalish primarily use the common tongue_ or _It’s a dwarven language, originally_ \- and rejected all three as undiplomatic. “I’m sorry you’ve been made to feel that way. I imagine that the Inquisition is very different from what you’re used to.”  
  
The elf gave a bitter laugh. “I doubt you _can_ imagine. Shemlen everywhere with Andraste on their lips, but only wealth and drink on their minds. And nothing green and growing, but for these sad plantings.” Her wave both took in the gardens and dismissed them as inadequate.  
  
“Why did you come, then?” Josephine asked gently.  
  
Neria looked down. “Because aravel walls can’t keep the world out.” The phrase sounded well-worn, long rehearsed and repeated, sincere but unenthusiastic. “Your Breach and your Inquisition will affect the People as well. Outsiders should know that we are lending a hand. And I am First. It was my duty to come, and my right.”  
  
Josephine kept her tone soft. “But it hasn’t worked out as you expected?”  
  
“I thought that it would be a chance to share my people’s culture, that I could spread some understanding of our ways. But the shemlen here have no desire to listen. When I try to teach them, they cut me off or wander away.” Neria raised her eyes and glowered. It was as if she was daring Josephine to comment on the frustration in her voice or the single tear lingering at a corner of her eye.  
  
Josephine was sure that acknowledging her agitation would only anger her further. The comforting hand she felt the impulse to place Neria’s shoulder would certainly be taken amiss. Instead, she said, “I would be glad to learn more of Dalish culture from you, Neria.”  
  
That won her a tight-lipped smile that was gone as quickly as it came, replaced with a scowl. “You don’t need to humor me.”  
  
“I’m not,” Josephine said patiently. “It’s important for me to learn as much as I can about the different peoples of Thedas, and I enjoy it.”  
  
“How can you make any sense of them?” Neria burst out, her composure cracking. “Shemlen culture is such a muddle. Andraste seems like the key, at the center of everything, but she seems to mean something different to each of you. And the other things you people say! ‘Maybe I will belong to a new master when this is over.’ ‘I decided not to kill the mage because he told a funny story.’ How can I possibly fit those pieces into a whole? And never mind the durgen’len, always babbling on about darkspawn and mushrooms.”  
  
Josephine didn’t think she’d have much luck explaining those snippets. Neria seemed to have encountered an odd lot. She did think, though, that she understood the flaws in Neria’s approach. “Neria, there are a lot of different human cultures. Tevenes, Fereldans, and Antivans may all revere Andraste, but they have different stories, customs, foods… You wouldn’t expect an elf from an alienage to behave in the same way as you, would you?”  
  
“No,” Neria said. “Elves in your cities have lost touch with our ways, so I would expect them to behave like shemlen.”  
  
Josephine patiently tried another tack. “Even two people from the same culture can approach the world very differently. Are all the members of your clan the same?”  
  
“Of course not,” Neria said impatiently. She was glowering at Josephine again. “But knowing our people’s history, lore, and customs lets me understand each clan member’s role. It gives me the key to understanding them. If shemlen would only listen to me, they could come to understand the People as well. But they don’t, and the key to your culture continues to elude me.”  
  
Josephine thought that it was not surprising that this abrasive elf was having trouble getting other people to listen long enough to learn anything about the Dalish. Still, she felt a certain sympathy for Neria. She had arrived in Orlais quite young, and the country and its people had seemed a baffling mystery at first. “Neria… I don’t know if it’s helpful to think of other cultures as puzzles to be solved.” Neria gave her a blank look. “Sometimes you’re better off just to watch, and listen, and try to appreciate what you see and hear, even if it doesn’t all make sense.”  
  
Neria folded her arms across her chest. “I didn’t come here to _appreciate_ human culture,” she said sourly.  
  
Josephine sensed that pushing Neria farther would only lead to greater resistance. She would have to hope that, at some point, her words would help. “I would still like to learn more about yours, if you can spare the time.”  
  
“Very well,” Neria said. The tight-lipped smile made another brief appearance. “If nothing else, I can teach you a _second_ elvish phrase.”  
  



	12. The Katari's Tale: Cassandra and the Katari

The Katari had risen early, but he was not surprised to see the woman warrior already hacking away at the training dummies. She almost always got here before him unless business had taken her away from Skyhold entirely. He took a moment to admire her form. Her strokes were efficient and careful in both timing and placement, if not exactly graceful.  
  
He nodded greetings to her as he took up a position in front of another training dummy and raised his blunted greataxe. They had trained side-by-side like this many mornings, exchanging no words aside from a few grunts. He took a few swings at the dummy, taking pleasure in the way the impact reverberated through his arms and shoulders.  
  
He felt restless. The Inquisition had normally dispatched him on mission after mission, but he’d had a week’s rest now, and the commander seemed happy enough to pay him to sit around Skyhold, idle. Especially with the tavern effectively off-limits, boredom was a constant threat, and it worried him. He’d heard stories of Tal-Vashoth running amok, and he fancied he could hear his axe crying out for blood. It would be a terrible end to be brought down like a mad beast after slaughtering the people in the courtyard.  
  
He turned to the woman, still intent on her exercises. “Do you want to spar?” he asked.  
  
She let her sword drop to the ground and looked him over. “I thought Qunari didn’t like to fight women,” she said frankly.  
  
“It’s not a problem,” he said. He had fought alongside enough women since joining the Inquisition that he could put the strangeness of it out of his mind. In truth, it had been seeing the skill and courage of human women in battle and picturing how the women in his life might take to that role that had started him on the road to questioning the Qun. And, ultimately, to rejecting its rigid roles.  
  
“Very well, then,” she said. “What are you called?”  
  
Not _what is your name?_ , which suggested she had some experience with Qunari. “The Katari. ‘One who brings death,’ in our tongue,” he added, anticipating the usual next question.  
  
“I’m Cassandra,” the woman said. “Tell me when you’re ready.”  
  
“I’m ready now,” the Katari said, raising his axe.  
  
“Then let us begin,” Cassandra said, steadying her shield.  
  
He stepped forward and aimed a testing blow at the top of her shield, planning to gauge how far he could force it down. Just before impact, she did _something_ with the angle of her shield, and his blow was deflected downward, the axe head burying itself in the ground. As he strained to free it, she stepped past it and raised her sword under his throat.  
  
That would have been his shortest and ugliest fight. “Well done,” he mumbled, glancing around the courtyard to see if anyone had witnessed his humiliation. Everyone seemed occupied with their own affairs. The warriors of his antaam would have taken a moment to gloat, then returned to practice. Cassandra did not celebrate her victory at all; she simply dropped back and raised her shield again to signal her readiness.  
  
He was more cautious, now, striking against her shield but not fully committing to the swing, keeping the handle in position to deflect a sword strike. He took the opportunity to try to get her measure as an opponent. He was sure he was stronger than her. He’d never met a human who was his equal in strength. He was at least as quick - a good thing as several times he had to scurry away to avoid her sword. But she was solid as a rock against any attempts to knock her off balance or push her across the courtyard. And, he grudgingly admitted as she dodged away from his axe and positioned her sword against his side, she was much better at predicting his moves than he was hers.  
  
“Well done,” he huffed again, and went back on the attack. She held him off, but he could see that she was starting to tire. The shield dropped minutely, her breath huffed from her lungs, and he could see when she shifted her weight in preparation for a strike. Sensing that he had the upper hand, he hammered her shield harder - and she bounced back from a blow and thrust the shield forward, knocking the axe from his hand. He lunged for it, but the sword’s end was at his chest before he straightened back up.  
  
He could feel his blood boiling now, and struck again without a word. She was forced back for the first time, and her sword strokes became more tentative. He rained blows on her shield, then turned the axe to strike the sword out of her hand.  
  
“I yield,” she said, breathing heavily. “Well fought.”  
  
Almost he struck her again before the words penetrated and he pulled the axe back, holding it as the roaring in his head subsided, then slowly lowering it to the ground. “Better fought on your side. You’d have had me dead on the ground three times before I wore you down.”  
  
She nodded, accepting his statement as the truth it was. “That you did. I need to sit for a bit,” she said, sinking down to her knees.  
  
He joined her, crouching on the bare ground of the courtyard. “You have such discipline and control. I’ve rarely seen that outside the Qun.” He felt its lack daily. Sometimes he understood the Tal-Vashoth who gave in to wrath all too well. “How have you achieved that?”  
  
“Through faith,” Cassandra said. “And long practice.”  
  
“Faith doesn’t bring order to the rest of the Inquisition,” he said. “The Inquisitor’s at the top, and then the chain of command becomes murky. I’ll be sent on a mission with three others and no one clearly placed in charge. It seems unstable.”  
  
“The Inquisition’s new, and we’re still finding our way,” she said. “I am confident that we will. But in the meantime, I can speak to Cullen about clarifying who’s in command.”  
  
“As long as he doesn’t plan to put one of the mages in charge,” he said with a snort. “If that fire-summoning boy starts barking orders at me… I’m not ready for that.” The perpetually hostile necromancer or the haughty elf would be little better. Which of his teammates would make a good commander? Possibly the dwarf, with his experience fighting in a group.  
  
Cassandra asked, “Would it be helpful to discuss that with the Iron Bull? He seems comfortable working with the mages - what’s wrong?”  
  
He had recoiled involuntarily at the mention of the Bull. Embarrassed, he explained, “I try to stay away from him. He doesn’t carry himself like a Tal-Vashoth. I hear rumors he might even be one of the Ben-Hassrath.”  
  
“He definitely is,” Cassandra said. “He’s made no secret of it.”  
  
The Katari’s gaze darted to the tavern, half expecting the Bull to emerge and clap him in chains at any moment. “Then why do you tolerate him here?”  
  
“He’s here to help us against Corypheus,” Cassandra said. “Not to work against us, or,” she added with a hint of a smile, “to drag random Tal-Vashoth back to Qunari territory.”  
  
She read his tells as well in conversation as in battle. “If that’s what you believe, then he’s either fooling you, or fooling himself. More likely you. The Ben-Hassrath are not easily fooled.”  
  
“We have eyes on him. But I assure you, his presence here is no danger to you.”  
  
They sat in silence for a few moments, and the Katari found himself relaxing again. The Inquisition was dealing with momentous events; it did seem unlikely that repatriating him was high on the Bull’s agenda.  
  
“Do you know any jokes?” he asked Cassandra lightly. One pleasure of being away from the Qun was discovering how many jokes his antaam hadn’t known.  
  
“I am the worst person to ask that,” she said with a scowl. “If humor is what you seek, I can recommend a dwarf. Or a bearded Grey Warden.”  
  
“I may take you up on that. Can we spar again sometime?”  
  
Now she smiled. “Yes, of course. Next time, you can try the sword and shield. You’ll learn more about to read a shield user that way. And my shield arm could use a break from your pummeling.”  
  
The Katari smiled at that. It felt strange to be pleased by praise from a woman warrior, but by no means unpleasant. Perhaps fighting with the Inquisition would work out after all.


End file.
